


Shallow Grave

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His Nicholas wasn't always like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shallow Grave

His Nicholas wasn’t always like this.

His Nicholas had been so proud. So eager, pleased to be of service, lit up with the joy of offering himself up. A beautiful vessel, molded into an incomparable offering. When he’d stepped to the center of the pentagram, he’d smiled at Henry, he’d smiled and for a second Henry almost called him back.

His Nicholas had been so _proud_.

*

Much of the time, he doesn’t even notice. Perhaps that is a lie, for there is always, _always_ , that fine brittle thread of hope when he sees Coward. Hope that there is still a shard of his Nicholas remaining.

But that’s a quiet thing, buried deep in his mind where he carefully thinks of it only seldom. Much of the time, he doesn’t even notice. For the form is still the same, and as pleasing to the eye; what else does one notice first and foremost?

Devotion.

That is not the same. Nor is the tinge of his laugh, nor the turn of his phrases, nor the touch of his hand; not the lightness of his steps, not the way he looks at Henry, not the myrrh laced scent – none of these are the same. The creature is a fair imitator, but not good enough to pass Henry’s inspection.

It escapes the notice of everyone else, though.

Who else would have known Nicholas as he had?

Much of the time he doesn’t even notice, and he tries hard to keep it that way.

*

After all, he invited it in.

He knows its unpronounceable name; it lies curled on his tongue, candied and bitter. It smiles at him out of Coward’s eyes and he knows it for what it is.

Power.

Sometimes, most of the time, he has no regrets. When he’s seated on the throne, Coward at his right, behind, in shadow, the world spread out before him just waiting to be plundered, he regrets nothing. When he is questioned, when someone stands against him – the palm of Coward’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and the power surges in him. Henry turns his gaze upon them, filled with the vicious delight of a demon’s amusement, and they find themselves on their knees.

The demon wearing Coward’s skin grins, and Henry has no regrets.

*

He’d promised it what they want most: a body. A body with years of use left in it, well formed, well maintained, well bred.

What use is a body, it bargained with him, if I’ve no leeway to enjoy the pleasures of this world fully?

So enjoy them, he told it. Enjoy them all; I’ll excuse any debauchery if you are discrete. Give me what you want, and I will find a way to sate even your hunger.

It was a deal sealed in blood, and both parties smiled with too many teeth, certain they had the better end of the bargain.

It is this promise Henry remembers when he enters their rooms and Coward greets him with bloodied hands. Bloodied hands and drenched clothes and entrails wrapped around his fingers; Henry sighs. His foot squishes unpleasantly on the carpet – there’ll be another stain to be scrubbed away.

He ignores the bodies spread on the table, blinking, hearts still trembling uncertain beats in their ribcages, split open and unable to cage anything.

*

Sometimes, when Coward will slant a glance at him that feels nothing like the warmth of Nicholas’s regard, when Coward smiles at him over a glass of wine with a twist to his mouth Nicholas would never have worn, when Coward laughs with an undercurrent of maliciousness his Nicholas wouldn’t even know –

when he opens the bedroom door to the sight of Coward bent over some naked form, again and again and again, when Coward looks up at him with those flat, wine dark eyes that make him long for the sight of sky, looks at him and lowers his head to kiss, bite, some portion of skin –

Sometimes, Henry regrets giving Nicholas away. He looks at the form so familiar to him and it is not; he misses the clarity of Nicholas’s mind, the smile that was wicked in an entirely different manner, the pliancy that was never as yielding as it seemed.

He misses _his_ Nicholas.

*

And other times –

Other times, hands smaller than his will press his against the wall, against the mattress, against the floor, with a strength Nicholas never possessed, and his breath will quicken. Coward may be slighter than he, but Henry will always feel overwhelmed, trapped. Coward will touch him like an animal, touch him like he’s filth, touch him like it is a gift. Will tear Henry apart, shred his pride and his bearing and his pretensions and laugh until Henry’s face is flushed, uncertain. Will strike him and only strike him again when the sound Henry makes isn’t becoming.

Will use him, toy with him, waste the potential of him; judge his worth and find him wanting. Filthy creature, he will call him, and Henry know he is right.

Coward would never call him such things.

Other times, he is grateful.


End file.
